


like you were mine

by urbancate



Series: The OFC Movie Star Series [3]
Category: Star Trek RPF, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF is dirty dirty lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbancate/pseuds/urbancate
Summary: I could use another cigarette.But don't worry daddy, I'm not addicted yet.One too many drinks tonight and I miss you,Like you were mine





	like you were mine

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream about having a conversation with Sean about how he really should quit smoking. And somehow it turned into this.
> 
> Sequel to _you'll end up where you were_ and _i'll be sitting on top of the world_. Which I guess makes this the 3rd in a series. The OFC Movie Star Series. *facepalm*
> 
> Titles from 3rd Planet by Modest Mouse, Movie Star by Roisin Murphy and Come Round Soon by Sara Bareilles.
> 
> And remember: RPF IS NOTHING BUT LIES. DIRTY, DIRTY LIES.

 

She likes to trace the tiny tattoo that is her mark on him, with her fingers or her tongue - the flower perfectly placed just inside the cut of his right hip, red because it's more sinful, more her, more  _them_.  
  
That it is nowhere near his heart or his hands, she tries not to think about that. It is tangible, it is proof of her claim.  
  
"A tattoo is pretty goddamn permanent." It is half-truth, half-lie. In the heat of a dozen hotel rooms they try to burn away everything but the truth.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
At best, though: Fire is unpredictable. At worst: It will eat you alive.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
"Smoking is bad for you, you know."  
  
"You're one to talk," she replies with her signature smile - prim with a twist and eyes that hint at more. It's one of his best mates, the older one with the craggy, disreputable good looks and a laugh like scotch, whatever the hell that means.  
  
He raises an eyebrow at her as he lights her third cigarette and suddenly it's all  _two can play at that game, sweetheart_  and she's always been a sucker for a good eyebrow raise and an accent.  
  
And  _he_  is inside somewhere, mingling and laughing and reminiscing with more of his best mates and slipping through her fingers, while this one is mentally taking her measurements and liking the numbers he's coming up with.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
She tries to quit smoking.  
  
Tries, at least.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
His hands are rough, and it's not like they don't bruise each other regularly, but he's almost hurting her and there is a look in his eyes - anger, mostly - and she knows what he isn't saying. Knows she shouldn't say anything. But when has that ever stopped her?  
  
"What, like you never  _shared_  before?"  
  
There is hurt and then there's pain and then there's fury, and they are all fuel and it's so explosive she can't exactly say she's sorry.  
  
She can only hate herself for being mean. For liking it. For letting him change her.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
She gives up on giving up smoking.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
And the list of things they don't talk about becomes damn near encyclopedic:  
  
The future - any story for them beyond the now - has always been a tricky thing. But now it's back to  _only now_.  
  
London.  
  
His children. The other tattoo, the one that isn't hers. Phone calls he takes into the other room.  
  
Smoking.  
  
He doesn't move in with her, doesn't even get a real place of his own, just uses her bed and her bathroom and her kitchen and  _her_  and then goes back to the hotel room that probably has his name on it by now.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
When he's gone, she smokes in bed and thinks of the cigarette-smoking man -  
  
if they were still friends, they would laugh together at such an old reference, but she can't even say the man's name to him and were they ever friends anyway, it's always been sex and possession with them -  
  
thinks of ways to hurt him, thinks she's done the damage she can and soon he'll be going back to everything he left.  
  
And she wonders: When did her cool veneer become such a hard thing, when did these bitter roots get tangled up inside her. When did the masochistic tendencies of loving this man at all become more twisted, more sadistic.  
  
\- - -  
  
They descend on L.A. this time, his mates and their jolly fun and inside jokes. If it turns out much like London did, that is only because she plans it that way.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
"Have you ever tried quitting?"  
  
"Plenty o' times. Never sticks."  
  
"Maybe you're not trying hard enough."  
  
"Nah, I just like my vices."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
"Is that why you're out here? My reputation aside, I rather fancy my face intact."  
  
"He's leaving soon, he just doesn't know it yet."  
  
"Ah, the old femme fatale routine."  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"If you still love him, why are you trying to send him packing?"  
  
"The answer is in the question."  
  
\- - -  
  
  
He goes home. And it's so different from the other times they might have / should have ended - no final, hasty fuck, no longing looks or lingering desire - just a ride to the airport and it's real. The book is closed.  
  
\- - -  
  
She slides into it easily enough, the new version of herself: The one that doesn't really care, smokes too much, laughs in a different timbre, and learns to appreciate scotch.


End file.
